Wider than the Sky

by Katherine Rothschild

  “What if . . .”

  “You run into jerks again?”

  I blushed. Emma twisted her lips. “Don’t worry. They’ll leave you alone now. So let’s get you into this.” She tilted her head, and the rhinestones in her glasses sparkled. “Now take off that McQueen and let me stain-treat it.”

  “Why are you being so nice? Are you my fairy godmother?”

  “Ha!” She winked, taking my wet dress. “Maybe I am.” Her smile dropped a little when Blythe came in bearing a stack of grayish wet paper towels, but Emma recovered quickly, and Blythe slapped the mass against my bare shoulder. Even my bra was damp, so she just de-stickified me and patted me down. Emma laughed as she awkwardly safety-pinned me into the dress. But it fit.

  After a long moment of admiration, Emma took a picture of me with her phone.

  “I’m sending this to Kai.” She grinned. “You’re my first model.” Blythe raised an eyebrow, but I shrugged. I was not about to argue with an up-and-coming designer.

  At the picnic table, I tried to sit without drawing attention to myself, but Kai looked up right away, his phone in his hand, my picture staring out at me.

  “Emma made the outfit she’s wearing now, too,” Kai said as we sat. I began to admire her dress, but a cough drew my attention down the table.

  “I’ve met one half of this dynamic duo already . . .” Kai’s friend was so tall and slim it looked like a challenge to fold and unfold his limbs. “I’m Nate. Blythe’s best chance for an A in bio.” I gave her the side-eye. He must be the “idiot” because he was competition.

  “She might not need help,” I told him, and looked back to Emma. It was quieter now; several lunch tables had emptied out. “Do you make all your clothes?”

  Kai was looking at Emma with something I couldn’t quite place. But it made me nervous. “Pretty soon her art will be in Paris or Milan.”

  “It’s not art,” she said, but she flushed. “And that’s impossible.”

  “Like a polar bear,” Kai said, and they exploded into laughter.

  No, no, no. People only laughed like that if they had history, if they had trust, if they had years of inside jokes. If they had a serious relationship. The girl I liked and the guy I liked could not like each other . . . it was too unfair.

  When she stopped laughing, Emma gave me a significant look. “I don’t make clothes out of necessity. I love working with textiles. I’ll make anything. Even a pillowcase into—”

  “Art,” Kai interrupted. They laughed again.

  I glanced at Blythe, whose glare told me I was crazy for being into Kai. I wished I could tell her it wasn’t just his looks. It was how, when I’d poeted in front of him, he’d just gone with it. He hadn’t judged me or said I was weird.

  “You know . . .” Nate reached across the table to tug Blythe’s sleeve. “Anything can be art.”

  “That’s not art.” She yanked her sleeve away. “It’s homework.”

  “I want a pillowcase covered with words,” I heard myself say. “Then maybe the ones in my head will fall out while I’m sleeping and I could read the story of my life.” I didn’t mean to be funny, but Emma laughed.

  Kai leaned across the table. “You could read your dreams.”

  “Or nightmares,” Nate said.

  “I could make a pillowcase for you,” Emma said.

  “Show-off,” Kai said and met my eyes. He smiled. I held my breath. “Hate to break this up, but I promised Sabine a school tour.” He stood, grabbing his backpack and gesturing for me to follow him, but Emma put a hand on his wrist.

  “You have class. You can’t be late.” Kai looked at his watch and the flutter in my chest died as he frowned. “Maybe tomorrow?” I didn’t get a chance to respond because a second later, the bell blared. We all grabbed our bags. I tried to wave goodbye, but Blythe was rushing us toward our next class—thankfully together.

  When we were across the quad, I couldn’t stop myself from looking back once more. Blythe saw, and said: “She’s not prettier than you.”

  “You know you’re giving yourself a compliment when you say things like that.”

  “I know.” She shrugged.

  She also knew this: I’d never had a boyfriend. I’d never even had a real kiss. The closest I’d come was a pseudo-boyfriend. And I’d stolen him from her. In sixth grade, she’d started hanging out with a white guy named Gerard who wore glasses that were so wide and thick, he was unrecognizable without them. His hair was lank, mousy, and hung behind his glasses in little clumps. He liked first-person shooter games, Skrillex, and old episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. I tried to talk her out of dating him, for all the above reasons. But she ignored me, and he started hanging out more. I saw them kiss a few times. And when they were together, she smiled a lot. It seemed nice to have someone. Even someone like Gerard.

  One day we all went biking together. They were riding side by side, and I had to ride behind. I guess I was jealous. So I flirted. And it took exactly eight minutes for him to decide he was done with Blythe and into me. Twin swap. When Blythe stopped speaking to me, I realized I didn’t even like him. I’d just wanted to feel special. I tried to apologize, but she wouldn’t listen. Her silent treatment went on so long, my dad got involved. Who was this Gerard? he wanted to know. What was so special about him? We hadn’t spent fifteen words describing Gerard—including glasses, skinny, and sweaty hands—before our dad had us both laughing over the annoying way Gerard said identical sis-thhhhhers.

  Thinking of Dad made me remember the house documents, and I turned to tell Blythe, but she gave me a big smile, and I hesitated. Then, without warning, she unzipped her backpack and pulled out her Sharpie. She grabbed my arm, drew an arrow on my wrist pointing at my sleeve, and wrote: Is this ART?

  I burst out laughing.

  Then I swiped the pen, grabbed her sleeve, and wrote: Is this LIFE?

  5

  IT’S EASY TO INVENT A FAKE LIFE

  We’d never had a babysitter. And definitely not one who brought in a construction crew the second Mom disappeared. But we did now—in our entry hall. We had a full-on construction crew with four sawhorses, a ton of two-by-fours, and a deafening circular saw. And Charlie.

  Blythe glared at them all. “How am I supposed to work?!”

  I shook my head and covered my ears. “How am I supposed to think?!”

  “I have snacks!” We both jumped as Charlie shoved a tray between us: cheese-and-cracker stacks. A solid choice. He shouted over the circular saw that Mom was gone to Los Angeles for Topanga Vintage Swap and a client consult. I thought of the sparkly dresses, vintage boots, and long necklaces I’d miss out on because I had school. “She’s gone through the weekend!”

  The saw cut off abruptly, and weekend! echoed through the house.

  “Does my mom know about this?” I gestured to where the crew had ripped up half the entryway floor. The saw started up again.

  “Of course!”

  Blythe rolled her eyes, grabbed half the contents of the tray, waved, and headed upstairs. I glanced after her, then back to Charlie. I still hadn’t told Blythe about the house documents. And I hadn’t returned Charlie’s letters. All week I’d thought about doing both, but there was never a good time to irritate people. Besides, maybe there was something in the letters about Mom? Or, with Mom gone, maybe I could go right to the source? It was the first time I’d been alone with Charlie in the week since we’d moved in.

  I raised my voice over the construction. “How long have you known my mom?”

  Charlie gestured for me to follow him into the kitchen. I did, and he let the swinging door close behind us, muting the noise. “We’re getting to know each other.”

  “Is that code for dating?”

  “Absolutely not.” Charlie set the tray on the kitchen island. “I was good friends with your father, Bean—”

 
I prickled. “Don’t call me that.” My dad started calling me Little Bean when I was a baby, because I was the second, smaller twin. It was a nickname I’d hated all my life, until I realized he’d never say it again.

  “Sabine.” Charlie smiled the way Southerners do—like his smile had nothing to do with the rest of his face. “I was about to make my famous Mississippi hot cocoa. I’m from a small town not far from where your dad grew up. Why don’t you sit.”

  “I thought you met my dad through work,” I said, thinking of the letters.

  “His firm assisted me with a personal matter.” Charlie opened one of the old-fashioned fridge cubbies and took out milk, then a container of Cool Whip.

  Cool Whip?

  “So, you were his client?” I asked.

  “At first I was,” he said, fussing with the burner to get it to light beneath the pan of milk.

  “Then one day . . .” I said, “you woke up and decided to help his widow raise her kids.” If there was one thing my dad had taught me, it was that people always had a vested interest in the outcome. What was his?

  Charlie measured the hot cocoa and leveled it, then tipped it into the mugs. “There’s more to it than that.” On the stove, the milk popped.

  I waited until he was pouring the milk to speak. “The city’s letter listed your names together. Like a couple. Is that what’s more?”

  His eyes flicked up to mine, and he winced as boiling milk trickled over his thumb. “I told you not to talk to Bernie McMichaels.” He set the Cool Whip on the burn like an ice pack.

  “How was I supposed to know who she was?” But I knew. And he knew I knew.

  He leveled his eyes at me. “What do you want to know, Sabine?”

  “Who you are? Why you’re here? If you’re with Mom.” Keeping his eyes on mine, he spooned a huge flap of fake whip into one mug, and then the other. As if he weren’t doing anything wrong. As if he weren’t ruining the integrity of hot chocolate.

  “I already told you. The answer hasn’t changed in five minutes.” He held the mug out to me. When I ignored it, he set it down.

  “If you were friends with my dad,” I asked, “why don’t we know you?”

  “It’s not possible that we’ve met?”

  “I knew everything about my dad.” Except one thing, I thought. Except how he died. The official line was: infection. But when we asked Mom for more, she said she couldn’t talk about it. We didn’t press her. But I didn’t think Charlie was going to cry if I asked him. “If you knew him so well, how did he die?”

  Charlie covered his mouth, then he walked to the bank of windows looking out on tangled rosebushes. He splayed his hands on the countertops. “Here’s what I know. Your father liked salmon in his eggs. And he would take it like that at dinner just as easily as brunch. He never had more than one drink at a time—ever—but it was always a double. If he drank vodka, it was Grey Goose. If he drank bourbon, it was Maker’s Mark.”

  Maker’s Mark was the bottle topped with red wax, like a candle. After he died, I found an empty bottle in his desk drawer. Charlie looked over his shoulder at me. I stared back. “Still don’t believe me?” He lifted his slim blond brows. “His favorite shirt was a short-sleeved polo, and he had them in every color known to Ralph Lauren. He read you and your sister poetry at bedtime. His favorite was Emily Dickinson. I think yours is, too.”

  I’d asked to hear this. I’d asked, but now my hope bird was caving in on itself from all the knowing. Words bubbled up inside me, Emily’s words in my dad’s drawl. I skimmed my thumbnail over my lower lip. “It’s easy to invent a life. Easy to invent—any life, just any life. A fake life, a real life. It’s just that easy.” I gripped the edge of the kitchen island to stop the words.

  Charlie waited. When I spoke, it was to my hands. “How do you know all this?”

  He ignored my question and walked back to the island, close enough to touch me. But he didn’t. “I know something else about your dad, Sabine.” When I looked up, Charlie’s eyes shone with tears. As if he really did know my dad. As if he’d lost him, too. “He’d want you to try my famous Mississippi hot cocoa.”

  I closed my eyes. Charlie even knew my favorite drink: hot chocolate. I took one.

  Charlie swept the back of his hand across his eyes. “Take one to Blythe.” I picked the mugs up, and, without thanking him, I walked out through the construction zone. In our room, I handed Blythe her hot cocoa.

  She smacked her lips. “What did you use? Whole milk?”

  “Charlie made it.” I put mine aside. “With Cool Whip.”

  She looked into the hot cocoa as if she could read the recipe there, then drank deeply. She savored it while I watched before she set the mug down. “Prepare yourself,” she said. “You may never hear this again.” She flopped onto her stomach on the bed and tapped the heels of her graffitied Converse together. “I think you were right.”

  My stomach clenched. “Charlie and Mom?”

  She nodded, holding up her fingers. “First, Mom has a type. Southern charm. Second, if Charlie were a friend of the family, he would have made lasagna or sent flowers like everybody else.” She went on with a five-point rationale. But nothing could explain Charlie’s name beside Mom’s on the house documents. Except maybe . . . cheating. I opened my mouth to tell Blythe about the house documents, but she was holding her empty mug, her face close to her textbook, murmuring to herself, a faint smile on her face from figuring out the sticky problem of our lives.

  I walked to the window and stared out at the willow tree on the hill, alone and swaying. I could almost imagine my dad there, looking up at the tree. I felt a tickle in my heart, like the brush of feathers, then a deep pinch of pain. That’s when it hit me. That heart squeeze that lets you know you’ve lost something. A little squeeze for your phone, a bigger one for a fight with a friend, and one that almost makes you pass out for a lost person.

  But my dad wasn’t lost. He wasn’t misplaced. He was gone. Forever.

  I curled up on the pink chaise with a first-edition Emily and lifted my thumbnail to my lips. I let the words fall out. When silence filled the room again, I stared out at the willow tree, the vast sky leading, in the distance, to the Bay Bridge. Charlie had answered my questions, but nothing he said convinced me that he belonged here, or that we did. I had to figure out what he wanted with us before his presence became a permanent situation.

  6

  THE HEAVEN WE CHASE INVITES DEPRESSION

  On Monday at lunch, I found Emma in the costume room to return her dress. She was smoothing a bolt of fabric over the huge counter-height table, so I hung the dress up. Then I presented her with a thank-you card I’d made from card stock, scraps of fabric, a glue stick, and a real paper clip I’d bent to look like a hanger holding a ruffly dress.

  “So crafty!” She hugged the card to her chest. “Maybe I’ll make this one next.”

  With Blythe studying through every lunch, I’d spent most passing periods and lunches with Emma, talking life, boots, and design. Being with her was a vacation from thinking about Charlie and my mom and how much I missed Dana Point.

  “Let me know if you need a model,” I said as I sifted through the costumes on one rack. It was a mix of A Midsummer Night’s Dream romantic and 1950s poodle skirts and sweater sets.

  “Speaking of, I have a new one.” She pulled out a short black dress with a skirt of silver and black alternating ruffles. Like all her dresses, it had one long sleeve and one cap sleeve, and I wanted to ask about the sleeve lengths, but artists can be sensitive about stylistic choices.

  “It’s amazing,” I said, gently lifting the hem.

  “Your McQueen was the inspiration.” She flipped the skirt into the air. “Where did you get that, anyway?” I told her about the beachy vintage stores I used to frequent as I skimmed my hands over the detailed stitching on the skirt.

  “Well,
there may not be a McQueen waiting for you in San Francisco, but there are some awesome vintage shops. We should check them some weekend.”

  I agreed, trying to hold on to the warm feeling that vintage shops gave me, but there was a tickle of worry in my chest. I shouldn’t get attached to this place. “Emma? Do you know how to find out about someone’s history? Like, beyond what’s on the Web?”

  The warning bell rang, and we grabbed our bags and headed out of fine arts and toward the quad. At first, Emma didn’t answer, and I told myself I should be having this conversation with Blythe anyhow.

  “Well . . .” She paused. “Kai could help you.” I sucked in a breath. She flipped her glasses down over her eyes, not noticing my nerves. “He works in the library. Let’s head over there.” I nodded, my heart already pounding at the thought of speaking to him in something other than French. Even at lunch, we’d only just nodded and said, “Hey.” And as yet there had been no tour. We gathered our things and headed toward the library.

  Emma bumped my shoulder. “What top secret intel do you need?”

  “I haven’t even told Blythe yet,” I glanced around, like Blythe might overhear, but she was probably already in class.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Emma said quickly, and I felt a stab of guilt.

  “It might be nothing.” I bit my lip and dug my thumbs into my skirt. “But there’s this guy we live with? Charlie? His name was on these documents right next to my Mom’s, as if they were married. But when I asked, he said they were platonic. But it seems . . .” I wasn’t sure what, exactly, it seemed. “Suspect.” I pushed my hair behind my ears, containing it.

  “You live at number six Magnolia, right?”

  I stopped walking. “Yeah.”

  “I’m not a stalker.” She laughed. “My grandmother is the president of this beautification organization. Yours is the oldest house in Thornewood.”